


If You Go Out in the Woods Today...

by my99centdreams



Category: Ginger Snaps (2000 2004)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my99centdreams/pseuds/my99centdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're in the woods. And not just in the woods like hanging around the edges, toes perched on twigs and dry leaves like they do when they wait for the bus in the morning, but in the woods as in Brigitte's escape plan involves a lot of internal panicking and clueless, frenzied running in whatever direction her feet (or Ginger’s) take her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Go Out in the Woods Today...

They're in the woods.  
  
And not just in the woods like hanging around the edges, toes perched on twigs and dry leaves like they do when they wait for the bus in the morning, but _in the woods_ as in Brigitte's escape plan involves a lot of internal panicking and clueless, frenzied running in whatever direction her feet (or Ginger’s) take her.  
  
They shouldn't be here, that's all Brigitte can focus on, the ways in which this feels wrong, like something bad is about to happen. Ginger can probably sense it too, is probably chasing after it like a high. Ginger's drawn towards all things horrific and Brigitte's drawn towards all things Ginger which is basically the same thing and no, no one has ever cut her a break in case you were wondering.  
  
Brigitte knows the trees are all pretty swirls of color - oranges, reds, yellows - but it's too dark to see any of them and her breath is coming out in short little pants. Sticks and leaves crack under their feet as they wander even deeper, the moon plays peek-a-boo from behind the trees. It's so cold Brigitte's pretty sure that if she tried to uncurl her fingers from where they're latched onto the back of Ginger's hoodie they'd just fall off, frostbitten and stubby.  
  
"You don't even have a plan, do you?" Brigitte huffs, feeling stupid in the realization that Ginger convinced her to do something moronic and possibly dangerous, _again_.  
  
"Who ever said anything about a plan, B? We're exploring. Simple as that." Ginger's voice is loud in the deafening silence of the woods, it makes Brigitte hunch her shoulders.  
  
"I believe the words 'burial site' and 'five minute walk' were used." That was thirty minutes ago.  
  
"Oh, yeah." Ginger stops walking, turning to face Brigitte. She's not smiling, because Ginger never smiles, but there's something similar to one hidden in the corners of her eyes. "Turns out it was a rumor. Some girls in the bathroom were talking about a Native American burial site by the-" Brigitte tunes her out, nodding along every few seconds as her eyes flick all around them. She can't see behind her and it makes sweat bead along her back, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Her heart's thudding like that time back in the fifth grade when their teacher separated them and she had a panic attack.  
  
Something's wrong.  
  
"Ginge-"  
  
And that's when she hears it: twigs cracking, leaves scattering.  
  
Ginger's mouth shuts abruptly. Her eyes widen, she grabs Brigitte's hand. Her words are rushed and angry, like they always are when she's scared. "What was that?"  
  
Brigitte stiffens, " _Shh_!"  
  
The girls freeze, chests rising and falling rapidly as their nails dig into each other's palms; Brigitte's pretty sure she's bleeding.  
  
A bush to their right shakes, their heads whip towards it and even though everything in Brigitte is screaming at her to run she can't, physically fucking can't.  
  
Images flash in her mind: tussling squirrels, foraging chipmunks, fluffy bunnies. It could be anything; there's a fifty percent chance that whatever it is won't rip her face off.  
  
And then she remembers Baxter.

Baxter, the neighbors' dog, who was found with his body parts strewn about the lawn, his belly split open like a piñata. They didn't see the body (much to Ginger's disappointment), but the stories she overheard from her mother and neighbors and classmates were enough to spark her interest. What the fuck was out there that could and would do something so disgusting and cruel to an innocent dog?

At first Ginger thought it was some insane cult that used Baxter as some sort of blood sacrifice, but when Brigitte reminded her that they lived in the suburbs of bumblefuck she quickly crossed out that possibility. Now Ginger thinks it's an angry spirit out for blood and revenge which probably has something to do with the shitty brain-rotting horror movies she’s been staying up late to watch, laying on the remote when Brigitte so much as eyes it; Brigitte never gets to watch the news anymore.

Thankfully, Brigitte's a little less deranged than her sister; she's almost positive it's a rabid animal. This really doesn’t loosen the knots twisted up tight in her stomach.

The bush rustles again and both girls let out a shriek. A house about fifty feet away from them lights up, its occupants probably debating whether or not to call the police. She can’t decide if she wants them to, on the one hand their lives could be spared, on the other their mom would ground them for so long they’d probably get their periods before freedom.

And, gross, Brigitte would rather cut off her left arm than get her fucking _period_. She’s seen the way her mom acts when she’s menstruating, like the world is ending and it’s the most painful thing she’s ever felt. Brigitte is not going through that.

Ginger stumbles backwards, “Let’s –”

The branches in the bush part as Brigitte’s mouth drops open to scream, her sister’s grip tightening as she tugs her back with her. It takes her brain a few seconds to tell her body to fucking _move_ already, but when it does Brigitte’s gone. Her lungs are burning and if her palm wasn’t bleeding from Ginger’s nails before it sure as hell is now. They run blindly through the woods, screaming like banshees – like the thing’s already gotten them.

“ _Ginger!”_ Brigitte screams, her fingers clawing at empty air. She stops, whirling around to find her sister lying on the ground, eyes and mouth open in shock as she looks up at Brigitte before flicking down to where her foot’s trapped and twisted under a fallen branch. Ginger kicks, her whole fucking body tensing in pain as she lets out another scream.

“I can’t move, B, I can’t fucking move!” For once, Ginger is the one panicking and Brigitte’s the one keeping her calm. She drops to the ground by Ginger’s foot, pressing her hands to the rough bark of the branch (more like log) and shoving with everything she’s got. Surprisingly, it rolls off, freeing Ginger and Brigitte’s mind flies to the next problem at hand: Ginger’s possibly broken ankle.

Her hands brush over her sister’s ankle, leaving behind dark smudges of dirt and blood, she pants, “Get up, Ginger. Get the fuck up, now.”

That’s when she hears the bark.

Slowly, she glances up.

It’s a fucking Rottweiler, even better, _Trina’s_ Rottweiler. Its pink tongue is hanging out of its mouth, it’s panting loud and obnoxious, barking and shifting its weight like it wants to play.

Brigitte digs through the leaves around her, looking for a stick – a twig – anything to throw. She makes contact with something hard – solid – and chucks it behind the dog. It takes off running without a second thought.

Ginger breathes, “Guess Trina’s dog didn’t get eaten after all.”

Brigitte nods, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her spine.

“Fucking hell,” Ginger groans. “Get me out of the fucking dirt.”

Brigitte does.


End file.
